


Find a Man that's Truer

by DAZzle_10



Series: Trans Owen Farrell [2]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Internalized Transphobia, Misgendering, Trans Male Character, Trans Owen Farrell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 04:31:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17135009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Owen Farrell deals with secretly dreading Christmas, dysphoria and self-doubt, and his own insecurities in a piece I like to call 'Owen only got agitated with the Ref at the weekend because he was really stressed, honest...'But seriously. The bits of Christmas which some people think are the best bits can be the worst bits for other people, and no, it's not easy to 'just put up with it'. Hence Owen struggling with it.





	Find a Man that's Truer

**Author's Note:**

> Because Christmas isn't always fun for someone even if it looks from the outside like it 'should' be. And because I've been low-key dreading it for weeks. I'll write something that's properly positive about being trans eventually, I promise. When I think of something.
> 
> This is my day-early Christmas present to anyone who reads this; I haven't even sorted out my family's presents yet, so really... This is special. And I really hope it gives a bit more insight to people who aren't trans about a few of the little things that they may not necessarily think about trans people struggling with/helps any trans people who read this to remember that they're not alone - ever, but especially not now.
> 
> Just a few WARNINGS:  
> -Dysphoria  
> -Mentions of misgendering  
> -Mentions of suicidal tendencies  
> -Internalised transphobia  
> ...so please be careful.
> 
> Some of the things that are mentioned in this, I'll probably explore more at a later date. Trans issues aren't sectioned of to be dealt with one at a time, though, so they're in here. 
> 
> Oh - and the title isn't from Coldplay! It's from Elbow. There's a song called Starlings which I'm very fond of (but then, I love all the songs from that album), and some of the lines in it seemed to hit the nail on the head. 
> 
> It's short, but I didn't really feel like dwelling for too long on all of this; I'll have plenty of time to do that over the coming days anyway.

There’s one thing that Owen Farrell hates about Christmas: one thing that he’ll never admit to his teammates, to his friends or family, because it makes him look weak, makes it seem like he isn’t coping as well as he’s spent years proving to everyone that he is. Because he really _is_ coping. He’s doing much better than most people like him probably are, and for that, he’s grateful. That doesn’t mean he never struggles, though, and Christmas is just one of those times, a constant every year that he equal parts dreads and looks forward to simply for the relief of getting it over with for another year.

The worst part is that, if he were _normal_ , he thinks it might well be his favourite bit of Christmas. He loves his family, and somehow, throughout everything, he’s maintained a good relationship with all of them. He likes spending time with them, having a few days a year when he can catch up with relatives that he hasn’t seen in a full twelve months – or longer, sometimes, if they hadn’t been able to get the same days free to meet up the year before. At the same time, the very thing that makes it so special – the rarity of the occasion – is the thing that leaves him hunched over his knees late at night, feeling like a little kid as he blinks back tears of frustration and tries to insist, to a wonderful, caring, supportive girlfriend – wife, now – who isn’t hearing any of it, that he’s _fine, Georgie, really_.

Because eventually, inevitably, his dead name will come out, and ‘she’ will get thrown into a conversation about his rugby career, and someone will tell him that he looked so _pretty_ with long hair: that he was such a _lovely little girl_ , and it’s so _very strange_ to see him now – nearly two decades after he came out to his parents, and then to the rest of his family, his friends, his school, and the doctors. He hates that they haven’t adjusted, hates that they never will, that he’s going to have to spend the rest of _their_ lives surviving on the philosophy of ‘grin and bear it’, and that his only respite will come with the deaths of his loved ones.

He almost hates _himself_ for it.

Of course, this year, it just has to be even worse. This year, he has to be dealing with one extra thing which _shouldn’t_ be enough to push him over the edge, and probably wouldn’t be at any other time of year, but…

He’s on his _period_ – and it makes him sick to even think the word, which is _fucking stupid_ , because it’s just a word, but it’s a word for girls and women and he is _not_ one of them – and now he can’t bear to  look at himself in the mirror, can’t even shower without closing his eyes on the one bit of his body that he hasn’t changed (because it doesn’t normally cause him trouble, isn’t something that clashes on a daily basis and certainly isn’t worth the time out of rugby, and maybe part of him actually kind of _likes_ it). He can’t even let Georgie touch him at the moment. She deserves better, he knows, and he almost regrets marrying her, because she could do so much better than him. She could have someone who can actually make love to her properly, who can give her the children they both want, who can be less miserable and less of a burden and… cis, is ultimately the word.

He should be grateful, really. He should be so insanely thankful that _it_ is lighter than it would have been without T, with far longer in between (at the price of being completely unpredictable, but the rugby would have done that anyway). He doesn’t get the cramps – at least, not the debilitating ones – the PMS, whatever else so many people complain about. He doesn’t care, though. He just wants it gone.

Sat here now, listening to his teammates talk about their Christmas plans, his brain keeps circling through the same vicious thought cycle, drawing waves of bitterness and pain with each repeated phrase until he has to turn away to hide the moisture in his eyes. Fuck, he just wants to get home and hide in his and Georgie’s bed, under the covers where no one can see how big his hips are, how his waist inches in just a bit too much, how his chest is still too large even though his body never had much time to develop like that and how his face is too soft even though the fat was redistributed years ago. Georgie tells him that he’s fine, that he looks normal and that he passes and that even if he didn’t, he’s still ‘ _valid_ ’. Owen doesn’t care about being valid. He just wants to be – not look like, _be_ – this so-called ‘normal’.

It's the little things as well, the small moments of stress during training that his hair might not be the right style – might make him look more like a lesbian than a man – and the minor panic whenever he stands in front of the goal posts when he wonders if his shorts aren’t fitting correctly, if it’s visible that he doesn’t have anything of substance underneath, and subsequently has to hitch the bottoms of his shorts up so that the added wrinkles hide how flat it all is between his legs. It wears him down, but he’s used to it; normally, he can deal with it. He just can’t right now, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He feels malformed, grotesque, like some sort of twisted parody of the body he _should_ have – the bodies that he sees around him – and he knows, really, that he’s fine, that he looks no different from the rest of them, but that means nothing when he has to pull Kev Sorrell or Dan Vickers to the side at the start of training and ask, in a very small tone, that they tell him immediately if they see any blood, because unlike the other lads – the ‘ _real_ ’ men – he has a set of fucking _ovaries_ and a _uterus_. He should really stop thinking those words, though, because they’re just making everything worse.

When he gets home, it’s an easy decision to make his way straight to the bedroom, tug off his shirt and slip under the covers with his phone as if the flimsy quilt will be enough to hide himself away from the world. He stays there, flicking through social media – trans twitter isn’t something he normally ventures anywhere near, but at times like this, when he’s looked through all of his feeds, it stops him feeling bored (and therefore keeps his thoughts from wandering to bad places) and reminds him that he isn’t actually alone in the world – until Georgie gets home.

When Georgie _does_ see him, she smiles sadly, and the expression only serves to make Owen feel worse. He should at least be able to _pretend_ to be fine, whether he is or not. She deserves that. She shouldn’t have to put up with him for a husband.

“Rough day?” she asks quietly.

Shrugging, he looks away and swallows. The action does nothing to get rid of the lump in his throat, and blinking doesn’t stop the burning in his eyes.

“Come on,” Georgie holds out a hand. “Ronnie needs a walk.”

Owen recognises the attempt to get him out of the house and distract him, but doesn’t comment as he sits up and takes the offered hand, following Georgie from the room. Maybe it will work – even if he is dreading stepping out of the house, let alone seeing anyone right now (he hates that even Georgie’s presence brought a twinge of insecurity).

“I love you,” Georgie murmurs when they’re out in the crisp air, Ronnie tugging at the lead insistently. “I wish I could help you more.”

It’s something Owen’s heard often over the last two decades – mostly from his mum, sometimes from his dad and occasionally from Georgie – and he hasn’t yet found a better response to it than an awkward shrug as he searches uncomfortably for something to change the topic.

“I love you too,” he settles for eventually, choosing to ignore the rest of Georgie’s words; his wife shoots him a glance with narrowed eyes, but stays silent.

For that, Owen’s grateful. He’s not in the mood to talk about any of this – when is he ever? Right now, though, he _needs_ to forget about all of it: turn his mind away from family and being mis-gendered and dysphoria, and just focus on the here and now. It’s a technique he taught himself years ago, and his success in applying it isn’t exactly consistent, but it’s probably saved him once or twice in his life.

…Which is another topic he shouldn’t be dwelling on.

“Owen,” Georgie squeezes his hand, and Owen has to shake himself from his thoughts as he turns to look at her. “Should we let Ronnie off the lead?”

Looking around, Owen shrugs. _Deep breaths, Farrell, and focus on the now._

“Why not?”

_Because they’ll have to catch him again, that’s why. For fuck’s sake…_


End file.
